effloresce

A river. Hastened footsteps. Metal screeching against metal. Whispering. Shouting. The slow-encroaching ocean. She turns her head languorously, as though to tune this onslaught of noise. 

➼ @gallowsbough​ 

 Despite his constant wandering, and few returns home, in his time here thus far it felt as if the island would always behold something new to reveal. Archimedes ward would be his new target for the day, one that screamed a remembrance of Celestia. A familiar feeling, but not anything that pulled one way or another. It only held so much importance in due to one brave warrior, otherwise that place was no place he desired to stay for long. Bland topics, bland apples. No good fruit could be bore there in his mind, and those were things that spoke deeply to him. 

 Aimless wandering brought to a head as he realizes that he has hardly been taking in anything of the place other than aesthetics. He knows better than to judge a land on pre-existing notions. Perhaps- it could be a better place than Celestia. Maybe, the fruits here were tasteful and full of a unique life. 

 Deciding on the very spot that a guide would be most proper, someone who clearly holds a passion for the ward in question! A salesman, even. Low and behold, things would continue to work in the bard’s favor- a dame looking as if she were about to enjoy a nap just out in the open of a more naturally taken over part. And what a sight, so natural and at home she seemed, it inspired song in him.

 With a slight strum of Der Frühling to alert her, proper lines of musical note followed close after,”It was a maid of my country, as she came by a hawthorn tree. As full of flow'rs as might be seen, she marvel’d to see the tree so green,” and with no immediate hesitation in her response he takes more steps forward, continuing this song of old.

“At last she asked of this tree, how came this freshness unto thee, and ev'ry branch so fair and clean? I marvel that you grow so green,” 

Yggdrasil’s drooping eyelids fly open again upon hearing that tune. She sits up, looking.

What skillful playing— joined by a clear voice! The bard in green has a kindly presence. Any apprehension she might have had fades.

The primal has never understood the finer points of music, but she always enjoys such performances. It has a mysterious power, she thinks; to weave together tones that in isolation mean nothing, yet in the spaces between, find intelligible, rich ideas. To weave words that complicate, transforming that again. Yggdrasil finds herself softly chiming along. She smiles. 

But the bard’s verse comes to a pause, a question. Was she expected to respond in kind? Yggdrasil mentally flounders at this, her smile freezing over.

How came this freshness, her branches fair and clean? How does she grow so green? Yggdrasil cants her head, as her thoughts whirl around the rhymes and rhythms. She finally begins an uncertain reply, Upon my leaves, this waxy sheen…. 

He catches it. Naturally he does. The near instantly response of calling him head researcher. And yet, she cuts it off. A curious thing. How much has time changed the beast which stands before him?

The plant is spared a quick glance and note but nothing more. It makes sense, he supposes. Someone like her would surely miss their home when nature was such a part of it. At least this is his assumption which he will not reconsider unless proven wrong. 

“You are more considerate than what I expected. Surely those of you in that crew are all aware of our encounter.” The word crew is spoken full of poison as he steps further into the building, inspecting it. His guard is lowered for even powerless he does not find himself with reason to fear another. If anything, he can at least vanish from this place and find shelter elsewhere.

So instead he searches and judges. In the end he comes to the conclusion that the housing provided will do for now and so he addresses the other once more. “Not even in limbo. It does make one curious of the powers at play in this city, which you appear to have some information of.”

Yggdrasil casts off any lingering bewilderment at the address that came out of her unbidden. The ache in her head persists, but her expression smooths out like a still pool of water, evaluating. 

I am aware, she chimes, carefully neutral. After all, she had helped her crewmates mend their wounds in the aftermath of that fight. 

Even if he should again aim to slay them, Yggdrasil thinks, very likely nothing will come of it; this city confounds even the natural and scientific laws governing life. The pertinent one, recalling her crew’s battered state, being death. And previous conflicts aside, would he stand here so calmly if his overwhelming might has not been stolen, as hers was when she’d first arrived? 

Maybe other than her normal outfit which is her military attire, she should try something else for starters. Ilsa was there in the first place as she came out from the dressing room. Something casual that she wishes to buy it, but knowing the price seems not friendly that wished for a job she would return it back and wear her default outfit once again. But there is Yggdrasil.

“Really?” That could be it as she can’t just guess what was Yggdrasil trying to say, knowing that she only chimes in communication but yeah, she’ll take the compliment. “I could buy this off but i don’t think my money’s enough.” Spending minutes with the primal, isn’t so bad while wearing it temporarily.

If price is the issue… the primal has increasingly little use for all the Dust that she has accumulated. A perk of requiring neither food nor shelter. Yggdrasil searches herself for the city-issue smartphone that she hardly ever looks at. 

I can pay, she chimes, eyes alight now that she’s found the contraption. She extends the phone towards Ilsa— and then notices that the device is unresponsive. Yggdrasil cants her head, chiming thoughtfully. Had it broken? She taps the screen uncertainly. Though she has become acclimated to the abundance of technology in this city, some things still elude her. Like battery life.

 it  is  one  of  those  days  where  he  has  been  left  in  peace.  they  have  become  rarer  these  days,  but  aesop  certainly  wouldn’t  complain.  though  the  city  has  given  him  plenty  to  keep  himself  entertained  aesop  preferred  to  stay  near  his  newly  acquired  cottage.  seeing  as  the  seasons  are  changing  he  ought  to  prepare  his  garden  a  bit  further  for  the  colder  months  to  come.  fortunately  they  are  blessed  today  by  beautiful  weather.  the  perfect  day  to  work  in  his  garden.

 though  what  he  did  not  expect  was  to  encounter  a  stranger  in  his  garden,  near  the  fringe.  at  first  aesop  thinks  he  is  dreaming.  there  is  no  way  someone  decided  to  just  lay  there,  right?  but  then  he  looks  again  and  again  before  realizing  that  he  isn’t  dreaming.

      ❝     …    hello  ?     ❞    oh  how  terribly  awkward!  he  isn’t  entirely  sure  on  how  to  approach  them,  though  then  again  he  never  expected  this  to  happen.  he  makes  their  way  over  to  their  side,  he  hasn’t  seen  them  moving  since  he  stepped  into  the  garden.  should  he  be  worried?  hovering  slightly  over  them  he  looks  down,    ❝    are  you  alright  ?    ❞    seems  like  the  best  way  to  approach.  best  determine  the  stranger’s  intentions  first,  although  by  the  looks  of  it  they  certainly  don’t  mean  any  harm.  

Yggdrasil wakes to the first call, but makes no outward sign of it. She has never known the Mistwood denizens to employ trickery, lulling unsuspecting victims with human voices. But hearing steps approaching, Yggdrasil is keenly aware that should it be the same horror that’d been stalking her, she cannot outrun it. The primal readies herself, potential brimming under a sleeping veneer. 

   ❝    are  you  alright  ?    ❞

The voice is nearly overhead, and she can feel its shadow cast on her. With a strong kick that picks up grass, she propels away, much like an octopus would swim, as a faint sheen of cold light envelopes her. Slightly wild-eyed, the primal twists to face what she’d assumed a threat.

But instead of the dreadful thing she expects, she’s greeted by a young man wearing a mask. She hovers uncertainly in the air, unblinking. The cool light fades.

Yggdrasil quietly replies in tintinnabulation, I will be. Her blank expression crumbles as she seems to deflate, head inclined. She adds, I am sorry about the grass. I will fix it. There is a small depression in the yard where the grass has been upended, exposing dirt. An easy fix, if she could just take in some more sunlight. 

He’d come to the Tempus Museum on a whim; he wouldn’t call himself an art aficionado by any means, but he was curious as to what pieces from other places might be housed there.  From what he understood, the museum was full of artwork from other worlds.  It sounded interesting – also, he had nothing better to do for the moment.

Van Helsing underestimated how huge the museum was on the inside; it was going to take forever to see even a quarter of the exhibits housed within it.  Consequently, he wasn’t staying in one place for very long unless something truly captivated him.  Some of the pieces of art in this particular exhibit hall were quite absurd; almost to the point that he couldn’t figure out what was going on within them.  It certainly made some of the art he was used to back home look quite dull in comparison.

When he finally reached the end, he jolted as he recognized the three people in the portrait.  The cool purple hued gaze of Queen Victoria looked down upon him; she had the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.  She was seated on her throne; to her right was his former mentor Aleister, and to her left was the eternally youthful Finis.  His mouth was twisted into his usual mocking smile; Van Helsing was gripped with hatred as he looked at the portrait that also hung in Twilight’s headquarters.

He was jolted out of his stupor by a quiet and kind voice beside him.  How long had she been standing there?  He couldn’t let his guard down like that again, at least not in this strange world.

“Yes.  It hung in my former place of work, actually.  I can’t say it holds many fond memories for me; I was just surprised to see it here.  I wouldn’t consider it worthy of being hung alongside these other pieces.”

Former place of work, Yggdrasil echoes with a nod, then scrutinizing the portrait. The woman bears herself regally, her extravagant dress and her place on the throne making it all the more apparent. Neither the older nor younger man flanking her show familial resemblance. 

Yggdrasil cants her head and looks the man beside up and down, assessing. Strong constitution, no visible weapons. But she thinks that he is poised for something. You worked for royalty? she inflects in question. What sort of work did you do? A pause. Her smile grows sheepish. If it is unpleasant to recall, you need not answer.

As her eyes steadily comb through the portrait again, she chuckles like wind-chimes, Whether or not it is worthy is not for you alone to judge... even though you are likely more knowledgeable than anyone else in this city when it comes to this. 

The night dampens all colors. Even the usually lush green of Yggdrasil’s head-sprout appears washed with dust. 

The ocean and sand look as though they’re cut from one continuous cloth. The water is dark, but the crest of its waves glow with the colors of autumn leaves. The sand is dull, but the contours left by wind, water, and many feet, faintly reflect those colors too. Where they meet, wet sand softly gleams by the wan moon, a foggy mirror of the sky.

Starkly standing apart from the scene is the woman walking across that mirror. The white of their hair shines like a beacon in the dark. Yggdrasil is distinctly reminded of some of her crew mates, the people from the moon. Feeling an inexplicable pull, Yggdrasil glides down the embankment and over the sand, drawing close. Cool blue eyes, too.

Yggdrasil looks up and down the clothing ensemble that Ilsa’s tried on. The Erune turns this way and that in the long mirror, examining herself.

I think it looks lovely, Yggdrasil chimes approvingly with a smile. Because Ilsa looks lovely as she always does. But upon noticing Ilsa’s expression, she hesitates. If the Erune’s dissatisfied face is indication, perhaps this outfit is not up to par, regardless of how it appears to the primal’s uninitiated eye.

Yggdrasil extends her hand towards the gaggle of mourning doves perched above. A generous pile of grass seeds rests on her palm. After a few considering twitches of their heads between the proffered seed and Yggdrasil’s head-sprout, one rotund dove comes to partake, perching on her hand. 

It is ordinary in almost every respect; just that its beak is uncharacteristically lined with intimidating teeth-like ridges. Much to Yggdrasil’s interest, all of the wildlife on this peninsula have these strange alterations. She’s taken to befriending them, so that she may observe more closely.

What about their environment caused the dove to evolve this way, markedly different from their smooth-beaked relatives that live a mere train ride away? Is their diet different? Or was it a response to another physiological change that is not immediately apparent...

Yggdrasil continues to speculate, until she feels the prick of someone’s eyes on her back.

Odd things from Yggdrasil’s home in the skies always seem to find their way to Spirale. Making rounds through Tempus Museum’s galleries, she occasionally passes a few art-pieces of familiar subjects; she sees a great model of a ghastly airship with an eerie smile formed by missing chunks of its envelope, an illustrated storybook detailing the tumultuous romance between two travelers (she pockets this one— not to steal, but to inquire if copies are sold), and a few other recognizable things.

As she enters another exhibit, Yggdrasil wonders if all of the works on display reference other worlds. Others’ homes. There are so many depictions that are fantastical even to her. Perhaps this place could be considered a catalogue of other histories that she may otherwise never come to know. 

After having shaken off some monstrous pursuers through the cover of treetops and fog, Yggdrasil’s aimless wandering through the woods comes to a halt at a lovely cottage. Nestled in a rare patch of bright sunlight amongst the perpetual mist pervading these woods, the garden is truly resplendent. A welcome respite following a long chase.

Yggdrasil wants nothing more than to soak in that sunlight and regain her strength. She had never experienced exhaustion prior to arriving at Spirale. A blight of this form.

She cannot not be sure of whether or not the cottage is vacant, but the great care that has been given to this garden is evident. With this final thought in her fatigue-addled mind, Yggdrasil flops over into a sunny patch of grass at the garden’s fringes, and basks in the light’s warmth. 

@gallowsbough

Something happened after arriving in that place between dimensions. An eternal prison was easily escaped, though not by his own doing. His stay there was extremely short lived before he once again was pulled from that place and into another. An insult. 

However, as much as he loathed being pulled around, perhaps a place which seemingly dragged in so many people from various worlds would provide more use than one intended to be his bane. But it was too soon to say.

The first matter of business was examining this supposed assigned housing. Already this world seemed vastly different from home, but nothing looked difficult to understand thus far given time.

He flexes his fingers after entering the assigned housing, feeling the power within him severely limited. It felt worse than being chained down. And as weakened as he was, he was forced to share a living space with others. But a name spoken on his list of incoming roommates rang a curious bell.

“Yggdrasil,” he speaks, seemingly to himself as a way to confirm his thoughts or something else. But then he looks up to address his would-be housemate. “It appears we will be sharing this place for the time being.”

Head Re—, Yggdrasil chimes immediately in a faltering greeting. 

The title had rung out before she’d consciously thought of it, then fizzled. Her temples begin to pulse. She carefully puts down the shears that she’d just been using to prune some overgrown houseplants, and rises to face her new housemate.

This eminent person, who had crossed blades with her crewmates before that mysterious tower untouched by even the clouds, would live under the same roof as her. Luck sure is inscrutable. Twofold, that Lucilius’ arrival has fallen precisely during one of Yggdrasil’s rare visits to this lodging that she scarcely uses.

The primal doesn’t know if this arrangement could be considered fortuitous or ill-fated. But, she surmises, if he has been borne to Spirale the same way all other-worlders have, then he is not yet a threat. 

Yggdrasil intently watches the ballroom from her seat on the sidelines, sipping a glass of fruit juice.

Though the primal typically goes about hovering a few inches off the ground, it’s not like Yggdrasil is incapable of walking. But for something complex and choreographed like dancing… Yggdrasil tries to make sense of the step sequences, how the torso and head twist and align, where the arms are poised, for instance. But while each component has recognizable patterns barring some dancers’ individualistic flairs, the combinations and permutations of those dance elements— on top of how they respond to their partners, and then the music!— prove difficult for Yggdrasil to pin down the know-how.

And then there are the shoes. She’s seen some of her crew mates wear those odd shoes with a single spike protruding from the heel. But Yggdrasil had witnessed one party-goer’s mask-induced transformation outfit them with those same spikes, and promptly stowed her own mask into her skirt. 

It’s not until she takes to open air that she realizes: she misses flying. She makes lazy spirals, dips down to scan the glittering city below, chases a bird through treetops, flies high to survey the stars— her rounds are aimless. 

She’s lazily drifting back down towards the castle lights and music when the wind abruptly picks up, stronger than usual at this altitude. Something— or someone flies past her in a swath of fabric, caught like a ship’s sails in the current. 

She steadies them with a quick hand, grasping their forearm and chiming gaily, Flying sure is exciting, isn’t it?

Especially when motivated by all the carrion strewn wildly about the forest floor. Carried by the gales, some of them had even been tossed across the floodplain, into the river. 

Though, confronted with the evidence of her violent trance, she feels no remorse; life is not wont to waste. 

The scavengers trickled in some indeterminable time later. Yggdrasil is hardly keeping track, reclined against a great tree, entirely limp, save for the jumbled mass of frayed cables and dented plate clutched in one hand. No matter what manner of creatures partook in the carcasses, she ignored them— even the most curious of which that investigated too close for comfort.

While they occasionally poked and prodded her— perhaps evaluating if she was also for eating or for play— Yggdrasil floundered mentally. She had been inundated with the alien power and recollection of the wind god. It made a hollow to live inside her before returning to its master. In its absence, something cavernous opened inside her, a great crevasse that hungered, fiercely drawing in air, such that one standing on its precipice would surely be sucked in— yet sating nothing.

Every bit of Ichimokuren’s spiritual energy had been flushed away, but still lingering was the burning impression of his ancient despair. While the storm had raged, she could experience this with a crystal clarity she’d never known prior. Now, its impression swirled about as mere smoke, the ideas and images diffusing unto nothing. But Yggdrasil wanted to remember this. 

She tried to recount it. How had it felt? She ruminated for a long, long while. Learning those sensations; of urgency, a fire licking at her back; of heartache, a burl that swells uncontrollably from her flank; and of betrayal, a rot that gorges itself from inside the deepest recesses and out.